


the wolf and the nightingale

by ewelinakl



Series: between the lines [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon verse, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Shameless Smut, abuse of italics probably, mentions of Geralt/Yen and Geralt/Essi, nothing very graphic though, set during A Little Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: Jaskier played him as effortlessly as he played his lute. He played Geralt like he played all the Veverkas and Akerettas of this world. His silver tongue once more charmed the witcher into giving him exactly what he wanted.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: between the lines [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615669
Comments: 6
Kudos: 212





	the wolf and the nightingale

Jaskier watched him, laying on his side, head propped on a hand, a little all-knowing smirk on his lips Geralt felt his gaze — heavy and sticky. He took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, which wasn't easy after having heard everything Jaskier had to say about him. Knowing that all of it had been true.

"It's late, witcher," Jaskier said at last.

"Sleep, then," Geralt spat in response.

Jaskier sighed dramatically. "It's rather difficult when you're grinding your teeth like this."

Geralt only ground his teeth harder. He was angry, which was ridiculous, because Jaskier had been right in everything he said, except for that blatant lie about Yen.

"Maybe you should've stayed at Miss Veverka's, then," he said, eyes fixed on the wooden planks of the ceiling. "Or gone straight to Akeretta's. Or any other girl, so that you could experience some _complete happiness_."

Jaskier laughed softly, it was a beautiful sound, even if it made Geralt angrier. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you're jealous, witcher."

Geralt turned sharply, facing the bard, who gave him a smug smile. "Right," Geralt snapped. "You know me so well, don't you, poet. You know me better than I know myself, apparently. You know me so well that you can tell it's not jealousy. What is it, then? Hm?"

Jaskier's hand reached out to play with the lacing at the top of Geralt's shirt. "It's Yennefer," the bard said. "It's always Yennefer."

Geralt caught his hand, squeezing a little harder than intended, but Jaskier made no sound, even though it must hurt. Geralt loosened his grip.

"And what should I do about it? What do you suggest in your endless wisdom?" he asked.

Jaskier smiled softly, his fingers flexing in Geralt's hand. His bones felt so fragile, like a bird’s. Geralt could snap them with way too much ease. "You could just give Essi a chance,” Jaskier said nonchalantly as if the idea of Geralt sleeping with his childhood friend didn’t bother him in the slightest. He was never jealous, not even of Yennefer, which was a breath of fresh air after Yen’s possessiveness, but at the same time…

Geralt shook his head. He wasn’t going to think about this. He was a mutant, mutants had no right to get sentimental. “She would fall in love with me,” he said, avoiding Jaskier’s bright blue eyes that had seemed so dull compared to Essi Daven’s. “And I couldn’t love her back.”

Jaskier scoffed, his hand sliding out of Geralt’s, landing softly on the mattress between them. “Because you’re a mutant?” he asked with an undeniably mocking ring to it.

Geralt looked him in the face, pursing his mouth in anger. “Yes, because I’m a mutant. And she deserves someone—”

“Oh, please,” Jaskier said, cutting him off, rolling his eyes so far back that it must hurt. “First of all, it’s not up to you to decide what other people deserve. She wants _you_. Whether you like it or not, she wants you, not someone who you think would be more worthy of her. She’s already fallen for you, Geralt. She’s fallen _hard_. Because no one cares if you’re a mutant, you’re the one who keeps bringing it up. And you really should stop, this self-pity is truly pathetic.”

Geralt sucked a breath through bared, gritted teeth. Jaskier watched him, unafraid of his wolf-like sneer, of his reputation, of his deadly skills. He was afraid of his own shadow, but not of Geralt, the Butcher of Blaviken. This ridiculous little poet who followed no logic and whose words cut to the bone, even through the thick skin of a witcher.

“You can lie to yourself all you want, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his cornflower blue eyes serious all of a sudden, “but I know you. It’s not your being a witcher that stops you from giving Essi a chance.”

“What is it then? Hm?”

“What is it?” Jaskier laughed, his hand picking up on the lacing of Geralt’s shirt again, mouth curled into a knowing smirk. “Your wish, of course. You can’t love Essi back not because you have no heart, but because it’s skewed by that witch of yours, that cold-hearted demon that put a spell on you.”

Geralt would love to disagree, blame it all on the Trial of Grasses and growing up in Kaer Morhen. But Jaskier was too clever to fall for those lies, he knew Geralt too well, when had he allowed this bard to get to know him so intimately, to learn to read Geralt like an open book? He thought of that poor beautiful girl downstairs, the girl with eyes like sapphires, with a voice like a siren’s, the girl who had already fallen for him and that he couldn’t love back, not because he was a witcher, but because she wasn’t Yennefer, because her hair wasn’t black as a raven, because she didn’t smell of lilac and gooseberries, because she wasn’t capable of breaking Geralt’s heart into pieces that she then sealed back together with a single kiss, a simple touch.

Jaskier wrapped the lacing of Geralt’s shirt over his slim fingers, looking down with a strange, soft expression on his face, and Geralt felt angry, guilty, and desperate to just shut Jaskier up, so he did it in the most effective way. The only effective way.

The kiss he pulled Jaskier into was harsh, almost brutal, but the bard didn't seem to mind, pressing against Geralt, opening his mouth, tilting his head back, always too ready, too eager, too trusting in the way he surrendered to Geralt’s touch. And it was so easy to push him until he was flat on his back, already flushed and tousled, _wanting_ , but not expecting anything more than what Geralt could give him; everything was so simple, so easy with Jaskier, it was all about having a good time, a little break from the grim reality, with no strings attached, no jealousy, no big words or promises. If only all of his relationships were like this.

But there was no point in thinking about this now, because that was just one step away from thinking about Yennefer who held his heart in her hand, who owned his soul, who had skewed him, leaving him unable to forget and replace her with anyone else.

Jaskier reached up to touch his hair, pulling him into another kiss, and that's when Geralt noticed the all too well-known vial of oil inside his palm and realised that this little bastard came to bed _knowing_ Geralt was going to fuck him in the end. He came prepared and something about it made Geralt angrier, made him bite hard into Jaskier’s bottom lip. Maybe it was that Jaskier knew him _too_ well by now, or that he was so fucking smug about it, or maybe it was just that Geralt had always been taught to be unpredictable, but he failed at that miserably whenever Jaskier — a simple poet, a human through and through — was involved.

He didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it either, he wanted to mute his mind, so he plucked the vial out of Jaskier’s fingers — delicate, breakable — leaning in for another hungry, aggressive kiss that Jaskier was all too ready to commit to, letting out a soft, half-swallowed moan that had Geralt tugging on his shirt and underpants, wanting to get him naked _right now_.

Jaskier slithered out of his clothing with grace Geralt could only wish for, his body pale and unblemished, his skin as soft and delicate as a woman’s, because Jaskier put just as much care and attention to it as women did, his night-time beauty rituals almost as intricate as Yen’s, even if his cremes and essences lacked ingredients like mandragora or dragon blood. And just as with Yen, Geralt loved to watch those rituals, the numerous products gently tapped into the face and neck, the careful brushing and styling of the hair, the long deliberations on the outfits. They weren’t so different, Jaskier and Yen — both a little too selfish, both unsure what they truly wanted, both beautiful, witty, and charming, both irresistible. So maybe Geralt did have a type, after all, and that type wasn’t really a sorceress, maybe that type was anyone who could floor him, which was mostly sorceresses, but also one cocky bard moaning into his mouth, tugging on his hair and whispering his name while wrapping his slim, pale legs around Geralt’s waist.

Geralt was weak and wanting, so he gave the bard just what he asked for, his fingers pressing right against the spot that made Jaskier produce soft, muffled shouts time after time, his fists closing on Geralt’s hair, right at the scalp, pulling, hurting, but in a good way. And there was a sense of achievement in watching Jaskier squirm, with eyes shut and mouth open, gasping for breath, all because of Geralt’s rough fingers knowing his bard inside out.

“Fuck me, witcher,” Jaskier murmured and Geralt found himself smiling because he loved how he could reduce Jaskier’s trained tenor to this husky, breathless whisper.

He loved having Jaskier at his mercy, denying him what he asked for, taking revenge for every harsh truth Jaskier cut him with tonight. Geralt’s fingers drew tight circles around Jaskier’s prostate while he kissed the bard’s ridiculously sensitive neck, making him shudder and mewl.

“Mhm, yes,” Jaskier purred a moment later, when Geralt sunk his teeth into the soft skin, almost tasting the too-rapid pulse underneath. “Maybe a bite-mark will make Akeretta more interested in me? Harder, witcher,” he commanded.

Geralt moved away, angry all over again. He had no intention of helping Jaskier in his stupid quest of seducing Akeretta. He wanted to fuck Jaskier until he’d be unable to pursue that goose of a girl the next morning. He moved his hands to Jaskier’s thighs, nails digging into the muscle, as he pushed into him, slowly but mercilessly, breathing through gritted teeth.

He was balls deep in Jaskier when he noticed the smug smile on the bard’s flushed face and realised.

Jaskier played him as effortlessly as he played his lute. He played Geralt like he played all the Veverkas and Akerettas of this world. His silver tongue once more charmed the witcher into giving him exactly what he wanted.

But Geralt wasn’t one of the silly geese Jaskier usually pursued, oh no. If Jaskier wanted to play, they could, but it would be Geralt’s tune this time.

He took Jaskier by the hands, pressing them into the mattress high above the bard’s head. Jaskier purred, flexing his fingers, his tendons moving under his skin. Geralt kissed him, almost gently this time, rolling his hips into Jaskier’s, trying to find the right angle. He was going to drive this damned poet _mad_ tonight.

Jaskier moaned obnoxiously loud when Geralt finally found what he’s been looking for and Geralt had to close his mouth with another kiss before he woke up Drouhard and his wife, and Essi. He set a steady pace, not too fast, but not too agonising either, not yet, at least. With every thrust, he brushed against Jaskier’s prostate, making him gasp softly, spread his legs wider, try to shift his hips, put a little bit of distance between Geralt and his most sensitive spot, but there was nothing he could do, that wisp of a bard, not when Geralt was a mountain of muscle towering over him, keeping him in one place, driving him crazy with every move.

“Geralt,” Jaskier moaned after a while, his fingers flexing and curling, “touch me.”

Geralt bared his teeth in a wolfish smile, leaning in to nip on Jaskier’s neck, right below the ear. “No,” he murmured.

Jaskier yelped, biting down on his bottom lip to muffle the sound, probably finding it too undignified to be heard by their hosts and his childhood friend. He tried to yank his hands away from Geralt’s grip. “Then let me—,” he gasped, his voice breaking when Geralt thrust deep into him. His fingers tightened on Jaskier’s wrists, he was probably going to leave bruises, but he didn’t really care. “Geralt,” Jaskier moaned helplessly.

Geralt bit on his neck, gently, making sure to leave no mark, before moving back to Jaskier’s left ear, taking the earlobe between his lips. “Your hands are staying right where they are,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr, making Jaskier shiver and whine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeated, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth. “I hate you,” he gasped, once he realised pleading wasn’t going to change anything. “I hate you,” he repeated time and time over, punctuating Geralt’s every move, until he could no longer speak, until all that left his lips was a monotone, helpless whine, until he shuddered and came untouched, suddenly soundless and breathless, tightening around Geralt, making him drop all the pretense and fuck Jaskier proper, kissing the damned bard on the open mouth, letting go off his wrists and instead wrapping his arms over Jaskier’s soft, pliant body, pulling him closer, as close as possible, Jaskier’s trembling hands twisting into his hair, his eyelashes wet against Geralt’s cheek, his heartbeat too fast, breath too shallow.

They stayed like this for a while, clinging to each other, even after Geralt came, burying himself deep into the heat of Jaskier’s body. When Geralt finally pulled away, Jaskier still shuddered, his gaze hazy, lashes lumped together as if he’d cried at one point, body limp. Geralt touched his face, kissed the corner of his mouth, moving down from there. Jaskier produced a weak sound of protest.

“No,” he rasped. “No, no, no, don’t touch me, don’t touch me, or I’m gonna—”

Geralt smiled, his lips right against Jaskier’s neck, the heat of his breath making Jaskier whimper. “You’re gonna what?” he asked, letting his lips brush against Jaskier’s skin, who only let out a small sound in response, absolutely powerless, completely spent, his entire body taut like a bowstring, singing. Geralt had never seen Jaskier like this, he’d never brought Jaskier to such a state.

He should've done it sooner.

He kissed the hollow of the bard’s neck, the dip of his collarbone, licked along his breastbone, until Jaskier’s trembling hand touched his hair, until Geralt looked into Jaskier’s blue eyes, until Jaskier whispered, “Geralt, _please_ ,” and then it was Geralt’s turn to shudder because he’d never heard Jaskier _begging_ , he never heard that note in the bard’s rich voice.

He cupped Jaskier’s cheek, kissing him, deeply, sweetly, rolling onto his back and pulling Jaskier on top of him, letting him nestle against Geralt’s chest and fall asleep within minutes. Geralt pulled the blanket over their bodies, because Jaskier was always cold, especially in the mornings.

He listened to the song of Jaskier’s breath, warm and steady against his skin, mixing with the trill of a nightingale outside the small window, and he felt good, satisfied and blissfully tired.

If only everything in his life was this simple.


End file.
